


A Miracle For Christmas

by cywscross



Series: December Fanfic Challenge [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, DECFANFIC, Fluff, Future Fic, Hale Family Feels, Language, M/M, Pre-Slash, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-09
Updated: 2014-12-09
Packaged: 2018-02-28 19:04:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2743718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cywscross/pseuds/cywscross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>(Day Eight - Decorating the tree (sort of))</em>
</p><p>The ornaments are all broken or crumbling, the paint faded and chipped, and all of it blackened and singed, just like the Hales’ tragic past. And Stiles can’t stand just leaving them like that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Miracle For Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer: I do not own anything from Teen Wolf.**

 

“Whoa, these are pretty banged up,” Liam remarks, poking at a cardboard box on the mantelpiece of the fireplace.

 

Before anyone can blink, Cora is on her feet and towering over Liam, hauling him away from the box. “Don’t touch those!”

 

Liam squawks a protest even as Scott half-rises from where he’s fiddling with the tree lights, looking torn between alarmed and confused.

 

“Cora,” Derek cuts in tersely, suddenly looking angrier than he has in a while now. “Put him down. He was just looking.”

 

Cora clicks her tongue in annoyance but drops the newest wolf back to the floor in a heap of flailing limbs anyway.

 

“What’s so special about them anyway?” Liam complains from the ground. “We bought a whole bunch of new ones just yesterday. Those look like they belong in the trash.”

 

Peter glides into the room before Cora can snap and break the runt’s neck or something. The man smiles a veiled threat at Liam before lifting the box off the mantel and relocating it to a coffee table pushed into an out-of-the-way corner of the partially decorated room.

 

“They're family keepsakes,” Peter announces with a deliberate lightness that makes half the Pack wince. “Rather important, if only so Derek and Cora won’t ever forget how abysmally disastrous they were at arts and crafts, so perhaps you should at least try and refrain from running your mouth off about them lest you find your throat torn out come morning.”

 

Liam blanches because while he seems to lack self-preservation at times, he’s not stupid enough to miss the fact that Peter Hale is one of the most dangerous in this Pack, and certainly the one with the least compunctions about letting his grievances known.

 

Cora sneers at everybody before stalking off into the kitchen, Derek looks even more irritable (read: possibly depressed) than he did a minute ago but he leaves Liam alone as well, and Liam is quick to scurry back over to Scott’s side where it’s relatively safer.

 

They're all in the newly repaired Hale House, putting up decorations in preparation for the first Christmas that they would be spending together in an actual home and without being disturbed by the latest Big Bad causing havoc in their town. In the past week alone, the girls have dragged everybody out to the mall _every single day_ , insisting on mass buying ornaments and lights and tinsel and garland and – of course – a tree, as well as presents for all.

 

Personally, Stiles was sick of it after the very first day, but – and he wasn't alone in this – he didn't exactly have enough balls to say that out loud within the girls’ hearing range, especially Lydia’s and Allison’s.

 

Still, he supposes that trawling the stores until their feet were falling off was worth it in the end, if only because the Hale House hasn't looked so bright and homey since before the fire.

 

Stiles glances at the box now, the one he didn't take much notice of when Derek first brought it down and set it aside like a shameful secret, and then he lifts his gaze to catch Peter’s eye. The werewolf still has his perpetual smug smirk on his face, but his eyes are distant, and his jawline is tight with suppressed emotion.

 

Stiles wonders if whatever is in that box still smells like ash and death.

 

He clears his throat, raising the wreath he’s been working on for the past half hour when Peter’s attention zeroes in on him. “Don’t just stand there, creeperwolf. If you've got nothing to do, then you can help me with this. If you’re gonna go around dissing Derek and Cora’s artistic abilities, _yours_ better be fantastic.”

 

Peter cocks his head knowingly but his smirk becomes a touch more real, and he saunters over willingly enough, taking a seat on the couch beside Stiles.

 

“Well,” Peter plucks Stiles’ admittedly less than perfect creation out of his hands. “At the very least, I can boast a better success rate than you.”

 

Stiles thinks he’s entitled to a good sulk when Peter proceeds to expertly thread another leaf into the wreath with a far more deft flourish than Stiles ever managed even after thirty minutes of eye-watering concentration.

 

Peter chuckles at his crestfallen expression. “It’s quite easy once you get the hang of it. Here, I’ll show you.”

 

Stiles makes a face but obligingly leans forward to study how Peter braids the flowers into the wreath, fingers moving with a dexterity that speaks of experience.

 

“I used to do this for a few of my nieces,” Peter admits quietly, obviously noticing Stiles’ curiosity but never looking away from what he’s doing. His voice is pitched low enough that even the werewolves in the room probably can’t hear more than an indistinct murmur coming from the eldest Beta. “Including Cora. She used to love making Christmas decorations, even when they came out more glue than art.”

 

Stiles slants a look at the werewolf out of the corner of his eye before subtly shifting so that his shoulder presses against Peter’s. Peter stiffens for a moment, his hands stilling, but then he relaxes again, and he even presses back a little.

 

“You try,” Peter passes him another long-stemmed leaf before setting the wreath down in front of both of them. “Practice makes perfect after all.”

 

Stiles scoffs. “Right, and I need to perfect this for all those wreath-making contests I’ll be entering.”

 

Peter’s smirk widens. “Oh? You should've told me sooner. Now I’ll have to make sure you don’t go embarrassing yourself by placing anything but first.”

 

“Peter Hale, Master of Holiday Wreaths Everywhere,” Stiles deadpans, but he can’t help grinning anyway as he gets to work again, ignoring the sparkles from previous decorating endeavours sticking to his fingers. “Your expectations are too high but I suppose I’ll have to try and meet them anyway. Can’t have the resident undead showing me up in fine arts of all things.”

 

They work together on the wreath, with Peter dramatically lamenting over Stiles’ sloppier attempts, and Stiles rolling his eyes over Peter being such a perfectionist diva over the simple decorations. Their elbows bump now and then but neither of them makes any move to pull away.

 

Stiles is aware of Scott’s blatant goggling from where he’s sitting with Allison, Liam, and Isaac by the tree, but he pretends not to see. Peter seems okay with being in such close proximity to Stiles, as he has several times before whenever the two of them wind up sitting together at pack meetings or excursions, and Stiles already had his freak-out over nursing a crush the size of Russia on Peter Hale of all people months ago. Scott can stare all he wants; Stiles isn’t budging unless Peter does a one-eighty and kicks him off the couch or something.

 

Later, once the tree is completely decked with colourful lights and trinkets, the banisters and mantel are adorned with tinsel or garland, strings of lights are lining the house outside, and wreaths of green and red are hanging on various doors, Stiles lets his nosiness get the better of him and – while everyone is distracted with taking pictures and whatnot – he takes a quick peek into the lonely box still left behind in its corner of the living room.

 

He isn’t all that surprised to find old Christmas decorations inside, mismatched and few. The ornaments are all broken or crumbling, the paint faded and chipped, and all of it blackened and singed, just like the Hales’ tragic past.

 

They're a sad reminder of things long gone, the remains of happier times that apparently even Peter can’t bear to pack away, as if setting them out would make them whole again despite the fact that they're in no condition to be hung up on the tree.

 

And Stiles can’t stand just leaving them like that.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He sneaks back into Hale House later that night. He was the one who carved the runes into the foundations of this house, and then erected the wards around the Preserve, so even if he isn’t already keyed in like the rest of the Pack, he’ll always be able to come and go. It’s a lot of trust placed in him by the remaining Hales, and Stiles doesn't plan on ever betraying that trust.

 

All the bedrooms are partly soundproofed so unless Stiles makes a lot of noise on purpose, the occupants of the house won’t hear him. Good thing magic doesn't go boom. Or at least not the kind of magic Stiles is about to attempt anyway. Hopefully.

 

The lights on the tree are still on, casting an ethereal glow over everything, and the box is still sitting on the coffee table.

 

He starts with the ornament that looks the least damaged, a glass bauble childishly painted a once-bright orange, now dulled and burned on one side. He cups it gently in his hands, breathes in deep, focuses on the Spark inside him that leaps up at his summons like second nature nowadays, and then he lets it out, lets his magic twine together with his belief before pouring the combined entity into the precious object cradled in his palms, willing it to mend itself, to return its plastic and paint and glitter to its former unspoiled glory.

 

And it does, reforming in his hands in a wash of golden light, and Stiles will never stop finding the whole process of _magic_ utterly amazing in and of itself. By the time the light vanishes, the ornament is intact, complete with the wobbly scrawl of _Cora_ at the bottom. Stiles almost cackles with pride, triumphant and thrilled with his accomplishment.

 

After that, he moves on to the others. They're harder of course, being more damaged. Most only have a couple pieces left, others not even that and those take forever and a half of squinting to reveal whether or not they go together at all, and still several other pieces are charred to the point where Stiles virtually has to repair it out of nearly nothing.

 

But so long as there’s even a fraction of a part left, no matter how badly smashed or burned or overall damaged, repair it he does. It’s time-consuming and draining, and it takes him the entire night, but by the earliest glimmers of sunrise, eyes drooping from magical exhaustion, back aching from being hunched over for six hours, and the base of his skull throbbing from a building migraine, Stiles is finished, and twelve ornaments – fully restored and still glowing faintly with traces of Stiles’ magic – are laid out on the coffee table.

 

Stiles doesn't bother hanging them up on the tree. The Hales may not want that so he simply wipes his scent from them, gathers them up into the box again, and leaves it on the table for Peter, Derek, or Cora to find. He hopes they won’t get too pissed over someone touching them to begin with even if they _have_ been fixed, and maybe they’ll accept the entire no-longer-broken issue at face value instead of hunting Stiles down to punch him in the face or something. He doesn’t need acknowledgement either, or awkward gratitude; if he can give them back a piece of home, then that’s good enough for Stiles.

 

Just a Christmas miracle on Christmas Day, even if they're _all_ too old and jaded to believe in such fairy tale nonsense anymore.

 

He gets a minor miracle himself on the way home when he _doesn't_ crash his jeep, and as soon as he reaches his bedroom, he barely spares the time to kick off his shoes and shrug out of his jacket before he collapses into bed, out like a light in two blinks flat.

 

 

* * *

 

 

His phone wakes him up with its insistent buzzing, and when he peels open his eyelids, all Stiles can do is groan, roll over, smother his face in his pillow, and pray he’ll suffocate soon because at least death will put him out of his misery. Sunlight is streaming through the window, and it does nothing to alleviate the headache pounding behind his eyes in time with his pulse.

 

It takes a full minute before he can muster up enough willpower to swipe his phone from his coat and peer blearily at the screen.

 

Seventeen text messages, four voice messages, and five phone calls are waiting for him. Well, six phone calls if he counts the current one that’s stubbornly refusing to go to voicemail for as long as possible.

 

Oh, and it’s eleven-thirty in the morning.

 

Wonderful.

 

Stiles heaves a sigh before answering. “’lo?

 

 _“Stiles, where are you?!”_ Scott’s voice demands, sounding frantic and cautiously relieved. _“You weren’t picking up your phone at all! We were just about to swing by your house!”_

 

“S’ry,” Stiles mumbles, rubbing a hand over his face. “Overslept. Are we- Is the rest of the Pack at the Hale House already?”

 

_“Yeah, we’ve been here for hours but we thought you wanted to spend the morning with your dad or something. Then it got later and later, and you didn’t call so we thought something was wrong. We’re about to have lunch in a bit; do you think you can make it?”_

 

Stiles grimaces at the mere thought of getting out of bed. He doesn't actually celebrate Christmas in the first place, not since- well, not since his mother died, but everyone’s been talking about it this year, what with all of them in town and most of the issues between various pack members ironed out at last. Emphasis on most.

 

“Yeah,” Stiles croaks out before the silence gets too long. “Give me an hour or so; I gotta grab a shower and... do some other stuff. Just start without me and save me a plate.”

 

_“No problem, see you soon then.”_

 

Stiles tosses his phone back on the ground after setting the alarm. If he’s quick about the shower _and_ the drive over, he can get in about forty more minutes of sleep.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Exactly an hour and eight minutes later, Stiles is stumbling through the Hale House front door, still wanting nothing more than to sleep the rest of the day away.

 

“There you are,” Lydia sweeps up to him as he ducks inside, a somewhat reproachful look on her face that doesn't do much to hide the concern lurking under it. “Sleeping in on Christmas Day? I thought you would've been one of the first to arrive.” Her features soften, and one of her hands reaches up to feel his forehead. “Are you okay, Stiles? You don’t look so good.”

 

Stiles flashes her a reassuring smile, and even after all this time, some tiny part of him still can’t believe he and Lydia are actual honest-to-god friends, and platonic bro friends at that. “I’m fine, Lydia, don’t worry. I didn't sleep very well, that’s all.” He goes for the puppy-dog eyes. “Food might make me feel better though. I haven’t eaten yet.”

 

Lydia rolls her eyes but she smiles back and hooks her arm around Stiles’ to lead him into the kitchen. “We’ve got more food than even the werewolves know what to do with, and that’s not even including the turkey that’s still cooking, so feel free to pig out. Oh!” Her eyes light up, and she changes direction, steering Stiles towards the sitting room instead. “Actually, you should come see this first. Apparently,” Bemused laughter makes her lips curl up wryly. “Santa Claus made an appearance last night.”

 

“Oh yeah?” Stiles has to grin in spite of himself. Luckily, Lydia’s too intent on their destination to notice.

 

“Guys! Stiles is here! Show him the ornaments!”

 

Within the next second, Stiles is accosted by greetings, and then he’s dragged over to the tree with at least three different voices jabbering in his ears about some old ornaments magically being fixed overnight.

 

“It could mean something dangerous,” is Derek’s pessimistic opinion, but he sounds half-hearted at best, and Stiles can see – when the man looks at the blue ornament with a clumsily drawn reindeer on it – a nostalgic smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.

 

Still, Stiles can’t help disputing, “Oh come on, sourwolf, maybe someone out there just wanted to make you happy; ever thought of that?”

 

The terribly dry look he gets in return tells him exactly how many people have ever gone out of their way to make him happy, and no, he is not that naive.

 

Stiles rolls his eyes before waving his hands. “Just imagine – maybe it’s Santa’s elves come to give you their own version of Merry Christmas!”

 

“I don’t care who it is,” Cora declares from where she’s guarding a particularly delicate-looking ornament made of – as Stiles discovered last night – crystal with flower patterns etched into the surface. “So long as they don’t blow up or something, I’m good.”

 

Everyone turns to eye the ornaments for a moment; with their streak of luck, and if Stiles doesn't know better, that could actually be a very real possibility.

 

“And here I thought _I_ was paranoid,” Peter breezes into the room, two plates of food in hand. “If they really were dangerous, do you honestly believe whoever did it would've made it past Stiles’ wards?”

 

At this reminder, everybody relaxes. Stiles has to forcibly stomp down on a blush, especially when – blushing for an entirely different reason – Peter brushes up against him and extends one of the loaded plates with a startlingly warm smile. Smirky-smile.

 

“I heard you were hungry,” The werewolf clarifies. “Eat up; there’s a lot more where that came from.”

 

Stiles wastes no time devouring the food like he hasn't eaten in days. Magical exhaustion always makes him hungry, in addition to tiring him out. The two other times he pushed himself too far, even the werewolves had trouble keeping up with his appetite for the day.

 

Today, strangely enough, Peter is always there with another plateful the moment Stiles finishes one, and he ends up downing four portions of mashed potatoes and assorted sandwiches and slices of pie before his stomach is finally satisfied.

 

“Jesus Christ, Stiles, are you planning on eating us out of house and home?” Isaac calls out mockingly when Stiles settles back against the couch at last after polishing off the last of the gravy.

 

“We each eat as much as he just did on a regular basis,” Cora snipes back before Stiles can muster up enough energy to retort. “And you don’t even live here; what does that make you guys?”

 

If Stiles was firing on all cylinders today, he would be more than a little suspicious of the way Cora jumped to his defense when – usually – she was perfectly content with kicking back and egging people on in a squabble. But he isn’t, that headache is still hammering away inside his head, and he can feel sleep tugging at him again, insistent and tempting.

 

“Stiles,” Stiles forces his eyelids open only to find Peter half-crouching in front of him with a glass of water. The man extends it with a commanding arch of his eyebrows. “Drink this first if you're going to go back to sleep.”

 

Stiles obediently swallows down half the glass, and then sips a few more mouthfuls when Peter continues pressing it to his lips. After that, he really does drop right off again, and the last thing he hears makes little sense to his exhausted brain.

 

“Wait, is he really going to sleep? It’s Christmas!”

 

“Just shake him awake; we were going out for a snowball fight!”

 

“Nobody wakes him.”

 

“But Derek-”

 

“Just leave him alone; it’s obvious that he’s tired. He’ll just make an even bigger target if he plays.”

 

“Duh, that’s why we should wake him. It’ll be an easy point for whichever side he’s not on. And it’s not gonna be mine.”

 

“It’s not gonna be anyone’s, loser. He’s not playing.”

 

“You're a party pooper, Cora-”

 

“I’ll be a lot more than that if you don’t shut up, runt.”

 

“Of all the things you had to pick up from Stiles, it _had_ to be that nickname?”

 

“I think it fits-”

 

“Enough. You will all be silent, and if you can’t be that, then get out.”

 

“Peter’s right. You want that snowball fight, go outside. There’s only a few hours left before the sun sets anyway.”

 

“...”

 

“You think he knows that we figured it out?”

 

“Probably not. Stiles can be adorably clueless sometimes.”

 

“Nobody here needs to know what you think of Stiles, Uncle Peter.”

 

“Except Stiles, apparently. I don’t think he’s been picking up on any of my hints. I even tried feeling him up one time-”

 

“Peter, just shut up.”

 

And then even that conversation cuts out as Stiles drifts off into oblivion.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When Stiles becomes aware of the world again, it’s dark, it’s warm, and he is blissfully headache free. He’s slow to wake, but then everything comes rushing back, and he shoots upright, wondering how long he’s been sleeping, and why nobody bothered waking him.

 

“We decided to save the feast for tomorrow,” Peter says, and Stiles freezes when he realizes that the man’s voice is coming from beside him, and that there’s an arm slung over his waist to keep him in place.

 

In fact, it isn’t only Peter. Cora and Derek are here too, and all four of them are on the ground in a cozy pool of blankets and pillows splashed with moonlit shadows, and Stiles himself is tucked between Peter and Cora, with Derek on Cora’s other side to close off this impromptu little-

 

“Is this a puppy pile?” Stiles squeaks out, wondering if he’s still asleep and therefore dreaming. “Have I been shanghaied into a puppy pile? Despite the fact that I'm not a puppy?”

 

“Nobody here’s a puppy, Stilinski,” Cora grumbles, and it’s easy to tell that she was sleeping just moments ago. “Now lie back down and go back to sleep.”

 

“But- What?” Stiles is hopelessly bewildered. It’s not every day you wake up and find yourself surrounded by Hales. Well, it is, if you’re in the Beacon Hills Pack, but not quite in this situation. “Why- Where is everyone? Weren’t we going to have Christmas dinner?”

 

Cora sighs as if everything from endangered animals to global warming is Stiles’ fault, and Derek growls something that sounds like “Stiles, shut up”, so it’s clearly up to Peter to answer, and fortunately, the Beta is willing to indulge him.

 

“We decided to save it for tomorrow,” Peter repeats, manhandling Stiles back down to lie flat in the nest of blankets. “Lydia managed a few stasis sigils that even she could activate so the food will still be fresh.”

 

Stiles blinks and tries not to squirm from how close Peter is (the guy’s half-wrapped around him, what the fuck; he’s not complaining but this is still weird). “But why? You could've just woken me up-”

 

“You needed the sleep,” Derek speaks up grouchily, and Stiles can hear the unspoken _idiot_ at the end. “From overdoing it yesterday night with the ornaments.”

 

Stiles goes still, and he ends up gaping up at the ceiling. “Um, what? I mean, I don’t know what you mean-”

 

“Oh save it,” Cora cuts him off, and she doesn't even have to shift more than an inch before she’s nestled against Stiles’ side, slotting in next to him in a way that says she was already doing this before Stiles woke up.

 

Stiles is officially freaked out, but still less freaked out than he probably should be.

 

“We know you were the one who fixed them,” Cora continues bluntly. “I mean who else could it be? Santa Claus isn’t real, and even if he was, he would've fried himself on your wards if he’d tried to climb down the chimney, and then we’d definitely be on the naughty list for killing Santa. So shut up and stop being stupid. It’s annoying.”

 

Stiles shuts up. But only for a few seconds. “So, er, you’re okay with it? I mean you and Peter looked ready to kill Liam for touching it-”

 

“Well yes, but that was Liam,” Peter says dismissively. “You don’t see us trusting him with our house’s wards, do you?”

 

“...Liam can’t raise wards.”

 

“Semantics. The point is, we wouldn’t trust Scott’s newest Beta-”

 

“‘Newest’ by _two years_ now!”

 

“-with anything important,” Peter finishes. And then he shifts closer and tucks his nose under Stiles’ jaw, and it doesn't take a genius to realize that the werewolf is subtly scenting him.

 

Stiles mentally throws up his hands. “Oh my god fine! So what the hell is this?”

 

“This is us trying to sleep,” Cora snaps cantankerously. “And you preventing us from sleeping.”

 

Stiles makes a note to never help the Hales out with anything ever again if this is the treatment he gets. Not that this... puppy pile is particularly awful or anything, just- it’s simply not something he’s used to, is all, and with no explanation whatsoever-

 

“Think of it as a sleepover if it makes you feel better,” Peter suggests as if sensing his discomfort.

 

Stiles snorts. “Whatever. I should probably be used to you Hales being weird- ow!” He yelps when Cora pinches his side through his shirt.

 

“Don’t start fighting,” Derek warns, and Cora grunts a reluctant agreement.

 

“Scott already called your father to tell him that you were staying over,” Peter carries on like there’ve been no interruptions. “So you won’t have to get up to do that.”

 

“He didn't need to,” Stiles says without thinking. “We don’t celebrate Christmas.”

 

Even Derek raises his head a little to peer at him from over Cora’s shoulder.

 

Stiles winces. “Er, I mean, it’s not- My mom loved Christmas,” It’s ridiculous how instantaneous understanding floods all three Hales’ faces. “So after she died, neither of us really celebrated it again. Dad usually spends Christmas at the station for a couple nights, and I get the house.”

 

There’s silence for several loud heartbeats.

 

“You fixed the ornaments,” Cora says after a long minute. “You’d think you wouldn't care about Christmas stuff like that.”

 

“It’s not that it was Christmas stuff,” Stiles corrects. “It’s that it was family stuff.” He pauses, hesitates, but in this quiet pocket of safety, surrounded by werewolves and cloaked by night, the words come easily enough. “...My mom had this collection of angel figurines. She always brought them out every Christmas. The first Christmas after she died, I thought- well, I brought them out, which was fucking stupid on hindsight. My dad was drinking again, and he saw it, and he just- he threw a whiskey bottle at them. The whole set shattered, he stormed out of the house, and-” Stiles laughs a little, and the sound is horribly hollow. “-and I remember being so scared that he wouldn't come back ’cause he was mad at me, which was pretty irrational, looking back, and he did come back eventually, after a couple days away to cool off I guess. I spent half that time picking up all the figurine pieces, and obviously, I didn't know how to fix them back then, but I did save them and hide them in my closet. I never mentioned them again, and neither did my dad. I'm pretty sure he thinks I threw them out.”

 

Another drawn-out silence prevails.

 

“Have you fixed them yet?” Peter’s voice is eerily calm. It’s the voice that Stiles associates with Peter’s ‘I am about to go on a homicidal rampage within the next three seconds’ mood. Before he can stop himself, one of his hands fumbles out to curl around Peter’s wrist.

 

A breath of almost amusement puffs against his ear even as Stiles replies, “Not yet. Yesterday was the first time I did anything like that. It didn't even really occur to me to try until I saw your ornaments. I can repair my mom’s collection later.”

 

“You can bring them over,” Derek offers unexpectedly, gruff and straightforward. “There’s room on the mantel.”

 

“We should have a few angel decorations around,” Peter agrees with Derek (for once). “We did before the fire.”

 

It’s a testament to how far the remaining Hales have all come that nobody tenses up at the mention of the fire.

 

“Okay,” Stiles acquiesces tentatively, trying to picture his mother’s angels unbroken again. It’s harder than he expects. “I’ll bring them over tomorrow or something.”

 

“Great,” Cora pokes him in the ribs, her quota of emotional confessions apparently used up for the day. “Now that that’s decided, can we please go back to sleep? I’m tired, and it’s the middle of the night.”

 

Stiles huffs, wriggles onto his side to get more comfortable, and decides – fuck it – it’s too much of a hassle to continue protesting whatever this is. Cora practically moulds herself to his back, and Stiles can feel Derek’s fingers grazing his elbow. That leaves Peter directly in front of him, and this close, with their noses all but brushing, Stiles can make out Peter’s unfairly blue eyes no problem.

 

Stiles feels his ears heat up, especially when Peter laughs softly at his reaction and cuddles even closer.

 

“There are a few things we should probably talk about,” Peter murmurs. “Though perhaps tomorrow would be a better time. We wouldn't want to scar poor Derek and Cora, now would we?”

 

“No, we would not,” Cora mutters, sounding aggrieved.

 

Ah crap, so the creeperwolf _does_ know how Stiles feels.

 

“And it is entirely mutual,” Peter assures, and too late, Stiles realizes he’d spoken that last bit out loud.

 

Then he jerks a little, staring Peter full in the face. “Wait, you-”

 

“Yes,” Peter confirms, a faint, genuine smile tilting his lips. Stiles can feel the man’s heart thumping steadily under the hand that Stiles has resting against his chest.

 

“Oh.” Nothing else comes out.

 

He almost hears Derek rolling his eyes. “Go to sleep,” The man orders in a long-suffering tone. “And no funny business or I’m tossing _both_ of you out into the snow.”

 

Cora snorts, and Peter doesn't look like he cares, though he refrains from doing anything save pressing a chaste kiss to Stiles’ forehead before nuzzling in close again.

 

Stiles is certain he’s fallen into some sort of twilight zone but – again – he’s not exactly complaining. A part of him is probably in shock.

 

 

He slowly loosens up, pillowing his head on Peter’s shoulder.

 

Worse things have happened to him. Weirder too. Puppy piles and confessionals and a possible return of feelings are far from the top of either list.

 

**[End]**

**Author's Note:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


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